18th Fighter-Bomber Wing in Korea

The END, FINIS', ENOUGH! * 100 Low Altitude Combat Missions .. Done!

After three tough combat missions on 23 May, 1951, two more on the 24th and another three on the 25th ... eight intense low-altitude missions in just three days, I was ready for a break; even though my new total of 93 combat missions put me right down to the home stretch, still closer to that goal of 100.

"Two more days, maybe three, at this pace ... only seven more missions to go...!

"Like climbing a mountain, it's so tempting to press on ahead when you're so close to the summit."

But I could not do it; I was getting too weary. My nerves were getting too taut. It would be sheer lunacy to try to stay on and finish, when each take-off and landing was becoming a supreme test of my mental and physical skills. I was dead tired, and I knew it! I knew, too, that if I didn't slow down to collect my senses, I might wind up "Dead, period"!

Returning from a short mission out of K-16, near Seoul, I flew down to Chinhae for a day off.

And I was very glad that I did, for a couple of heavy, wet weather fronts moved through the country, drenching the entire peninsula.

I was happy to be in the dry, semi-comfortable surroundings of the main base at Chinhae to wait it out, rather than in the leaky GI tents at Seoul City Airport.

Three days of forced 'relaxation' was about all I could stand while I was so keyed up to fly off my few remaining missions. We were greatly relieved then, on Monday evening, May 28th, when the skies finally began to clear, and the Weather Forecaster predicted that we would not have too much difficulty getting through to the bomb-line the next morning ... as long as we stayed low, over the water, close along the west coast.

That's exactly what we did. 'Snuck under' the low scud all the way up to the North Korean transportation center of Chinnampo for some search and destroy" attacks along the railroads, where they weren't expecting us so soon, while the rain and scud clouds were still hanging low in their areas.

After landing at K-16 for reloading, we went out again on our usual road-cutting ventures into the central mountains. The weather socked-in again on the 30th, seriously limiting the number of flights we were able to get out of our little airstrip near Seoul.

Then, after aborting a morning multi-flight mission to Sinuiju with a rough engine and poor radios ... (or 'jangled nerves', ... I'm not too sure which... one of the very, very few aborted missions of my entire tour.) I was unable to schedule another mission that afternoon, and had to chalk up the whole day as "wasted".

I made up for it on May 31st, however, by completing two long ones up to the Yalu River area of Sinanju and Anju ... and, regretfully, bringing back unpleasant memories of my prior flight to Anju, in October, 1950, when I realized I was getting the "clanks" and was psychologically not able to lead three novice pilots into such a 'hot' target. ... an unpleasnt memory that refused to go away...!

But with luck, one more day should do it. I walked over to the Operations tent to verify the flight schedule for Friday, June 1st, making sure that the Ops Officer had me on deck for two, and possibly three missions.

He assured me that I could have two and, if I could keep my airplane running and flyable, I could have another while taking the Mustang down to Chinhae after the third... and my last ... 100th combat mission.

I was especially careful the next morning, during my preflight check of the dusty, dirty-looking old airplane; I checked it thoroughly from stem to stern. I didn't want to push my luck at that final stage of the game.

Our target was reported to be railroad traffic moving between Kyomipo and Pyongyang ... which didn't enthuse me too greatly, 'thinking of the heavy flak concentrations in that area, and my vivid recollection of the polka-dot skies over Sinmak. We found our train, about half-way between the two cities, however, well out of the heavy flak areas, and proceeded to bomb, rocket and strafe it just before it could reach the protection of the nearest tunnel.

Despite the lack of any visible ground fire, I made sure that I "jinxed" my airplane around the sky every few seconds... like it might have had "St Vitus Dance", to make sure that no eager gunner could get off a lucky shot at me.

Our second mission, just before 1000 AM, took us over to the Haeju area, just north of the 38th Parallel, near the west coast, where one of our pilots was reportedly shot down by ground fire. His wingman had seen him bail-out, but he was too low on fuel to remain with the downed pilot until he reached the ground.

We arrived in the vicinity he described, within just a very few minutes after the report, but, as much as we searched, we could find no signs of the parachute. Finally, after thirty minutes of looking, we had to give up and head north, toward Sariwon, to get rid of our load of armament.

We made some good road cuts in the hills south of the city, then rocketed some rolling stock in the rail yard on the outskirts of town. With that, we went back toward Haeju, hoping to see something of the downed pilot. Again, no luck. So we went back to K-16 for landing and reloading.

Upon landing, I was informed that Harry Moore, a good, longtime friend from the 67th days at Clark, had been jumped by four MIG jets, and had been shot down somewhere near Chongju. There was no hope that he could have survived, even if he had been able to bail out.

Then, less than thirty minutes later, we received word that Ross Cree, flying his first mission since having been wounded, was shot down while making his skip-bombing run. He'd 'just rolled over and piled into the ground', was the way his wingman described it.

"What a shame" ...'"what a damn, damned shame", I thought. "A damned, damn filthy, dirty shame"!! Two good, close friends killed within just a few minutes of each other ... neither of which should have been flying combat again in Korea!!

They should have been back in the 'States training replacement pilots, or manning the new Air Defense squadrons ... anything except flying additional combat missions in Korea.

I had to wonder, too, just who in the name of heaven, had cleared Ross Cree to fly again so soon after taking such a serious wound to his arm ... it had been less than ten days; he could not possibly have healed enough. Surely, the Flight Surgeon must have known....! Or had Ross even talked to the Flight Surgeon...?

'Knowing his eagerness to get back into the war, to finish his final 18 missions, it wouldn't have surprised me one iota if Ross had taken off his sling and simply faked recovery with the Assistant Operations Officer at Chinhae, to 'con' him out of an airplane and a slot on the mission.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I was willing to bet that the eager sucker might have just gone out to the line and "stole" the airplane, without even asking permission. And he made the supreme sacrifice. No matter how he got the Mustang, he clearly earned his posthumous Purple Heart medal. Ross Cree was one of the "Special People" in my book ... truly, One-of-a-Kind.

After a bite of late lunch I was ready for my third mission of the day and, barring a "falling down of the heavens" ... my final combat mission of the Korean War.

The Ops Officer, ('bless his little 'pea-picking heart) had set me up to lead a flight of two on a road-cutting mission a few miles north of Haeju ... just barely over the front lines. I was to find my own targets, bomb them from whatever altitude that I chose, launch my rockets where-ever and when-ever I so desired, and, if I still felt brave, could strafe whatever I felt up to!

In other words, the mission and it's degree of danger, was being left completely up to my judgment ... I could play it just as cool as my conscience and my nerves would allow.

As I fired up the big Rolls Royce Merlin engine that afternoon of June 1st, 1951, it didn't cross my mind for an instant that it was to be the last time I would go through that routine, nor that it would be the last time I would make my cockpit-check around that so-familiar little "office"... for that was to be the last time in my long career that I would be flying the venerable F-51 Mustang.

I probably should have thought about those little, but significant milestones in my flying career ... but I didn't. And, at the time, if I had thought about it at all, I probably would have, instead, thought: "Good Riddance"! (At that time I was more interested in getting back into the jet fighters .. more modern, F-86 Sabres and whatever was to come later, than I was in a nostalgia trip in the old World War II F-51 Mustangs.)

"True", the Mustang had been good to me ... carried me over the deepest of the oceans and around the highest of the mountains, ... from the 'Hump' of China to the unmeasured depths of the Philippine Sea... and had always brought me home safely, despite the holes I'd allowed into her ... but on this last trip, my nostalgia was displaced by my concern for one last request....

"One more time, Lord; please, just one more time...!

Weather conditions in my target area were close to perfect; clear skies and just a faint haze layer around 5000 feet. Winds were gentle and coming from the west.

I had no reason to question the dive-bombing factors as I lined up over a road in a narrow canyon in the hills north of Haeju. At 8000 feet I rolled over, lined up on the road and, as I passed through 4000 feet, triggered off my two 500 pound GP bombs.

As I pulled out, keeping well-clear of the nearby hills, I could see a good blast right in the middle of the steep mountain road. A good hit.

My wingman, a new replacement fresh from Japan, had a near miss, but I was not about to be critical ... not on this mission.

We wandered around over the hills, looking for possible rocket targets and, finding nothing of particular interest, I decided to launch my rockets into a tunnel on the railroad north of Haeju." ... there's always something hiding in a tunnel."

I chose a tunnel with a nice clear, open approach, one that would not limit my 'jinxing' in and out, then, with one big salvo and a quick pull-up, the rockets exploded inside ... hitting "I know not what" ... but something, I was sure.

We then dropped over to the nearby vicinity where the pilot had been reported down on the previous mission that morning, and, lo and behold, hanging from a tall cottonwood tree I could see a tall-white parachute. I thought sure that we had searched that same area on the previous mission, without seeing the 'chute. But, then again, maybe the long plume of the white nylon had been screened by the trees, and our search passes had come from the other direction.

On the other hand, there had recently been reported instances of the Chinese Reds purposely setting out decoy parachutes in an area where one of our planes had been shot down ... for the sole purpose of snaring our low, slow-flying searchers as they came down to see if the pilot was still in the parachute harness.

The thought of a possible trap came immediately to mind, and I was leery of letting myself get caught in such a no-win situation on my 100th mission.

My first reaction was to remain above 3000 feet, make a good note of the location, and to simply report the 'chute sighting to 'Mellow Control'. They could send another flight in to look over the area again, or maybe send a busy helicopter from Kimpo Air Base, and hope for a pick-up.

After all, if it was a trap, no small arms would hit me if I stayed up at altitude ... and there probably would be no pilot in the harness, anyhow ... or if there was, he would probably be already dead ... if it was a trap.

I tried my very best to rationalize in my own mind not going down to look closer ... but my conscience wouldn't let me off the hook that easily.

On the other hand, if the parachute was not a trap, the pilot could be still alive, and hanging in the harness, unable to cut himself free until someone came out to help him ... and, until now, I was apparently the only person who knew the exact location of his 'chute.

I knew then that I had to go down for a look ... trap or no trap.

Calling to my young wingman to stay high, and to keep a good look-out for small arms fire, I dove into a wide arc, looking for any signs of vehicles or troops as I dropped to treetop height, slowing my speed to about 175 mph over a cleared meadow which led over to the parachute tree at the edge of a wooded area.

Then, as I neared the 'chute, I would pull up and roll over into a steep bank for a good view.

I did just that. And, as I pulled up to check the parachute, I could see clearly that the harness, which hung close to the trunk of the tree, about twenty feet from the ground ... was empty. The pilot had undoubtedly been able to climb from limb to limb, and down to the ground. There was obviously nothing more that I could do for him at the moment, 'not knowing which direction he might have run to hide.

The smartest thing I could do, was to pour on the coal and get the hell out of there before someone started taking potshots at me. And, to be on the safe side, I put my nose down onto the meadow again, kicking rudders to jinx the little '51 from side to side, as I accelerated back to a reasonable climbing speed, then hauled abruptly back on the stick to zoom back to 2500 feet and out of small arms range, to rejoin my wingman.

After a wide, easy climbing turn toward the south, we were soon over friendly lines again, and heading for Seoul. I called K-16 Tower and passed on to them the report of our sighting of the parachute, and it's precise location, asking them to phone it to Mellow Control. I noted that no ground fire had been observed on my low pass, and that a helicopter should have no trouble getting into and out of the area ... if they could locate the pilot, who had, no doubt, taken cover nearby.

Then I asked the tower for 'clearance to make a low pass over the runway for a "Hundred Mission Gear Check". They responded with an immediate "Clear for a high-speed gear check."

Again I directed my wingman to remain off to the side and above traffic pattern altitude, while I swung wide in a diving turn, at full power, dropping below the level of the smokestacks as I headed ... not for the runway, but straight for the Operations tent.

I pulled up sharply after missing the tent pole by a scant ten feet, then, in a steep climb, I proceeded to barrel roll until my nose fell back to the horizon, at which time I rolled level and turned southward toward the Naktong River and Chinhae.

My wingman, the young newly-arrived Lieutenant with ninety-seven combat mission yet to fly ... and whose name I don't remember, joined up close on my wing, raised the visor of his helmet and put his right hand to his brow in a very deliberate, precise... and much-appreciated hand salute. He then pulled up into a chandelle turn and headed back to K-16 for landing while I continued on course, alone, toward K-10.

It was over ... I had done it!

I was heading back for landing from my 100th Korean combat mission. All I had yet to do was to navigate the familiar hundred odd miles, over friendly territory, to our home base at Chinhae, where I must then land the F-51 without hitting the hangar, and without putting the landing gear over the seawall, taxi back to the parking area, shut down the engine and climb out... "finished", "done", "all through" and most surprisingly, still alive!

My fuel supply was more than adequate, and the clear springtime sun was settling gently over the sea toward mainland China as the southern shore and it's pretty coastal islands came into view. I toyed with the idea of requesting another "100 Mission Gear Check" at Chinhae, but by then I was beginning to feel awfully tired ... that strange, anchor-dragging weariness that comes at the end of a long, tense period of stress.

By the time I had swung around onto my initial approach for landing, and had chopped the throttle and turned from downwind to base leg, I found it to be a major physical effort to reach down by my left shin to move the landing gear handle to the "Down" position.

The realization of my fatigue told me: "Hey there, Buddy, stay alert ... you're not on the ground yet!"

And with that, I again became extra-cautious as I guided the frisky little airplane down onto the bumpy, steel-planked runway, with the sea-splashed seawall just a few yards to the left. My wheel-first landing was as smooth as the PSP surface would allow, and I made sure my tailwheel was centered as I lowered the tail with my decreasing speed. Then, testing my brakes lightly, I slowed and taxied carefully back to my designated parking space.

With a great sigh of relief, I pulled the Mixture control lever to Idle Cut-Off and, as the big prop stopped turning, reached over to turn off the Magneto, Ignition and Battery switches.

And there, at Chinhae, South Korea, on the evening of June 1st, 1951, I ended my final flight in North American Aviation's F-51 Mustang, after logging eight hundred and twenty career flying hours in what is probably the finest, most efficient little flying machine ever produced.

As I climbed wearily from the cockpit with my total of 100 Korean combat missions (in 190 combat hours)... I was greeted by the Crew Chief with a cold can of beer and a hearty: "Congratulations, Captain!"

It was over. I had done it. I had lived through it without a scratch! Forty-five combat missions flown in just 19 flying days!

My very first stop, the first thing the next morning, was to be a visit to the Group Personnel Officer... they now had no more excuses for not printing a set of orders sending me back to the United States ... and the sooner they got started on it, the better I would feel.

I walked to the Operations Office to check in ... I needed to stretch my stiff legs. And with each step I felt better ... and better ... and better...and better!

DAMN, but it was GREAT TO BE ALIVE!!

Duane E. 'Bud' Biteman,
Lt. Col, USAF, Ret
‘...One of those Old, Bold Fighter Pilots’
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